


All Alone

by orphan_account



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 16:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5547476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wingo secretly dreams of being a race car.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Alone

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story a long time ago and soon after Cars came out, before canon profiles for the tuners were released. Therefore, it’s a bit AU/not canon, and a bit out of character, but hopefully it’s still worth reading!
> 
> Some of the events in the story come from the first Cars video game, as well as some of the dialogue. The song Snot Rod plays is “Alone” by The Gathering.

 

“Dude.  No.  Freaking.  _Way_.”

Wingo sighed inwardly.  Judging from the expression on Boost’s fender, the purple car meant business.

“Look, I just think we need to take a rest after all that work--”

“ _No_.  We are not staying here another night.”  Boost looked nervously up and down Radiator Springs’s single street.  “Each second we’re here, we’re that much closer to getting roped into more work.”

“Boost’s right,” DJ put in.  Wingo glared at him.  Of course he’d say that.  DJ was an expert at sucking up to the tuners’ leader.

“Actually, I’m kind of tired--” Snot Rod began in his nasal voice, but Boost cut him off.

“Come on, before we end up like _that_.”  He gestured with a tire toward the owner and operator of Tow Mater Towing and Salvage as he rolled down the street singing “Achy Breaky Heart” to himself.

“You boys leaving so soon?”  Boost cringed and turned to see Flo coming up to them.

“Soon?  We’ve been here a week paving your parking lots!”

“Then I bet you’re hungry.  Besides, the gas ration you had this morning won’t even get you out to the interstate.”  Flo smiled sweetly.  “Come have a snack before you go.”

“I _am_ kind of hun--” Snot Rod started.

“We’ll be fine,” Boost said firmly, trying once again to leave.

“That’s a shame.  The twins were hoping you’d stop by,” Flo said pointedly.

“I don’t care if. . . did you say ‘twins’?”  Boost looked back to Flo’s to see two pert little red Mazdas watching the four tuners and giggling to each other.  When they saw Boost watching them, they blushed and waved.

“Well. . . I guess we could stay a little while longer,” Boost amended.  DJ chuckled, and the two followed Flo towards the V8 Cafe.  Wingo smirked; he hadn’t planned the intervention, but at least he was going to get his way.  Nothing like a cute girl to get Boost to stick around.

“Ahh-- ahhhh---- _choo_!”  Wingo winced as he felt oil hit his spoiler.

“Snot Rod!”

“Sorry, Wingo.”  The orange car sniffed.

“You’re going to ruin my finish if you keep sneezing on me!” Wingo grumbled.

“I said I was sorry!”

“It would help if you quit apologizing and just got that thing on your hood fixed!” griped Wingo.  “Come on, they’re gonna drink all the gas without us.”  Snot Rod meekly followed him over to the Cafe, where they took adjacent gas pumps.  It didn’t look like they were going to get served any time soon though.  Boost and DJ had monopolized the twins, and eventually Flo herself had to bring Wingo and Snot Rod their drinks.

“Well, boys, should I go ahead and book you some rooms at the Cozy Cone?” she chuckled.  “It looks like your friends might want to spend some more time in our little ol’ town after all.”

Wingo grinned.  “That would be great.”

\--

By ten o’clock-- the town curfew for “underage vehicles” according to Sheriff-- the four tuners were safely installed in individual rooms of the Cozy Cone.  Wingo watched out the window until he saw Sheriff drive past, then he slipped outside with his lights off.  He could hear music coming from DJ’s cone, and a loud sneeze from Snot Rod’s.  Wingo quietly drove up to the office.  He was a bit surprised to find the cantankerous old car Lizzie there.

“Uh, excuse me--”

“What?” griped Lizzie, then she turned and got a good look at Wingo.  Her disposition improved immensely.  “Well hello there, you young hotrod.  What can I do for you?”

Wingo gulped.  “Um, do you know where I could find Lightning McQueen?”  To his dismay, Lizzie cackled loudly.  Wingo tried to duck under the window in case anyone heard the laughter and decided to investigate.

“He’s out on a date with Sally,” Lizzie declared.  “Lucky girl.  That’s why I’m mindin’ the desk.”  She looked Wingo up and down.  “What do you want with Lightnin’ anyway?”

“It’s, uh, private.”

“Oho, it is, hunh?”  Lizzie cackled again, and Wingo wished he could crawl into a hole.  “I knew that boy was popular with the ladies, but-- whoo!  Sorry, sonny, I think he’s pretty set on Miss Sally.  But if there’s anything I can do for you--”

“ _No!_   I mean, that’s all right.  I mean, it’s not anything like that!  I mean. . . never mind.”  Wingo started to slink out of the office.

“They should be gettin’ back pretty soon,” Lizzie called after him.  “He’s been stayin’ in cone number one if you want to wait.”

“Th-thanks,” Wingo stammered.  Making a mental note to avoid Lizzie at all costs from then on, he went over to the first cone in the lot and parked in its shadow.  As Lizzie had said, it was only about ten minutes before he saw McQueen and Sally enter the parking lot.  Apparently McQueen _was_ “pretty set” on Sally, because it took another ten minutes for them to say goodnight.  Wingo had almost dozed off when Sally finally went into the office and McQueen came towards the cone.

“Lightning McQueen?”

“Ahh!”  McQueen jumped and squinted into the darkness.  “Who-- oh, it’s you.  I thought you kids left already.  Or did you want more time with Bessie?” he snickered.

“We’re not kids!” Wingo retorted.  “And from what I’ve heard, you know Bessie pretty well too!”

“Touché,” Lightning said with a roll of his eyes.  “What do you want anyway?”

“Is this really your headquarters now?” Wingo blurted out.  “A race car like you-- _here_ \--”

“Yeah,” McQueen replied as he narrowed his eyes a little.  “A race car like me.  Here.”

“So. . . you’re gonna to be around for a while.”

“Until I go on the road for the next race, I’ll be here practicing.  Why?”

It took all of Wingo’s mental strength to swallow his pride enough to ask in a low voice, “Could I come watch some time?”

McQueen looked taken aback.  “Erm. . . I don’t usually like anyone watching when I practice.  And I didn’t peg you for a racing fan.  I guess it would be all right every once in a while, but. . . why do you want to?”  He smirked a little.  “I saw your friends chatting up the twins.  You trying to impress Mia and Tia with your racing knowledge?”

“No,” Wingo scowled.  “I. . . I thought I might pick up some. . . pointers.”

“Pointers?  You mean like. . . waaaait a minute.”  Lightning rolled toward him a little.  “You’re not telling me _you_ want to race. . . .”

Wingo glared at him defiantly.  “So what if I do?”

To his humiliation, Lightning started laughing louder than Lizzie had.  “Oh that’s a good one-- a prissy little import tuner who wants to be a race car when he grows up!  Kid, you wouldn’t last five minutes out there.  Someone like Chick Hicks would eat you for breakfast-- no, more like a snack!”

Wingo’s jaw dropped open.  “You-- you big jerk!  You’re supposed to be nice!”  He was horrified to realize that he sounded just like the kid McQueen thought he was.

Lightning quit laughing and glared right back at him.  “I _am_ nice, to cars who deserve it.  But not to little show-offs whose idea of a good time is wrecking innocent trucks.”

“What?  How’d you know about that?”

“Didn’t you ever wonder how ‘a race car like me’ ended up here?” McQueen snapped.  “My driver recognized you and your friends when you were working on the parking lots.  You ran him off the road and jolted _me_ out of my trailer the night I found my way here.  I guess I should thank you for it-- it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.  But when I nearly got killed on the interstate that night, it didn’t seem so great.”  McQueen looked at him in disgust and backed into his cone.  “Get out of here.  You’ll never have what it takes to be a race car.”

Wingo felt as if the ground had dropped out from beneath his tires as he slowly went back towards his cone.  Tears threatened to well up in his eyes, and he blinked them back fiercely.  What would Boost say if he knew some stuck-up race car had made Wingo cry?  Still, the neon lights of Radiator Springs blurred a little.

DJ’s music had stopped by then, and a nasal snore sounded from Snot Rod’s cone.  Wingo had the insane urge to wake up one of his friends, just to have someone to talk to.  Just to have someone laugh at what McQueen had said, to convince Wingo that they weren’t just kids, that their pranks didn’t. . . didn’t almost kill someone.  Boost and DJ would laugh at that, all right.  And then they’d ask why Wingo had talked to McQueen in the first place, and when he told them, they’d laugh at him too.

Wingo crept into his cone and shut the door.  Yeah, better not to mention it to anyone.  Then tomorrow they’d get to leave Radiator Springs for their own homes along I-40, and he’d never have to see it or Lightning McQueen again

\--

The next morning, Boost and DJ wanted to stop by Flo’s for breakfast-- served by the twins of course.  Wingo begged off as not being hungry and waited on the edge of town where he wouldn’t have to see McQueen.  He just hoped the race car wouldn’t say anything to the other tuners.  After a few minutes, he heard a loud sneeze from behind him, and Snot Rod shot past as he was accidentally propelled forward.

“You sure you don’t want something to eat?” he sniffed as he backed up even with Wingo.  “I tried some of that old hippie’s organic fuel-- it’s actually pretty good.  Cleared my sinuses.”

“Could have fooled me,” Wingo grumbled.  “And I said I wasn’t hungry.”  He sighed impatiently and looked back towards the town.  “Aren’t those two ready to go yet?”

“They were talking to the twins when I left.  I think they want them to go out with us tonight.”

“Great, so we’ll have to come back here _again_ to pick them up?”

Snot Rod gave him a curious look.  “I thought you wanted to stay here.”

“I was tired last night,” muttered Wingo.  “Now I just want to go home.”

“Really?” Snot Rod snuffled.  “Aren’t your parents gonna be mad?”

Wingo cringed.  In the midst of his other worries, he had forgotten all about his parents.  “I’m sure they’re over it by now.”

\--

They weren’t.

By the time Boost and DJ had torn themselves away from the twins and the four tuners had made it back to the interstate, it was mid-morning.  Wingo didn’t get home until nearly noon, where he was greeted by his extremely irate father.

“You were supposed to be home last night!” Wingman Silvia, Sr., exploded.  “Where were you?  Getting into more trouble?”

“No,” said Wingo sullenly.  “We were too tired to drive home so we stayed in a motel.”

“That was the right thing to do, honey,” Wingo’s mother put in.  “You don’t want to drive when you’re sleepy.”

Mr. Silvia paid her no attention.  “Well I hope you enjoyed your night out because it’s the last one you’re having for a long time, young man!”

“What?” Wingo wailed.  “You’re grounding me?”

“Dear, don’t you think he’s been punished enough?” Mrs. Silvia put in.  “He did have to spend five nights in an impound--”

“And do you know how long that will be on your driving record?” Mr. Silvia raved on.  “I hope this will teach you some responsibility, Wingman.  There’s more to life than sticking a spoiler on your rear and driving around with those no-good friends of yours!  Aren’t you ever going to get a job?”

“I’ve had jobs before!” Wingo protested.

“I mean a _real_ job, not just changing tires for a couple weeks until you get enough to pay for whatever work you want done next.”  Mr. Silvia sighed heavily.  “Don’t you ever think beyond the moment-- about the consequences of your actions?”

“Why bother?” Wingo snapped.  “Nothing I do is ever going to please _you_!”  He cringed at how emo he sounded, but hey, maybe the line would work this time.

“What will please me is for you to go to your room.  Right now,” Mr. Silvia said sternly.  Wingo rolled his eyes and made all the usual headlight flickers of protest, but he knew it wouldn’t do any good.

“You wouldn’t know anything about what I think,” he whispered as he slammed the garage door to his room.

Wingo tried to occupy himself with the latest catalogs of tuner accessories, but none of them could hold his interest.  In his opinion, he already looked perfect, and some more lights or another level on his spoiler wasn’t going to make him any happier.  Finally he pushed back the corner of his rug with one tire and nudged out his hidden stash of racing magazines.

Some of the cars pictured just didn’t have it-- they might be fast, but they lacked any style whatsoever.  Then there were the ones like Lightning McQueen, who made the sport look good.  But still, there weren’t _any_ race cars with neon or sparkly headlights or stacked spoilers.  None of them who looked like Wingo.

Wingo dozed off looking at his magazine, but the sound of his parents’ garage’s doorbell woke him a couple hours later.  He shoved the magazines back under the rug and opened his door a crack to peer out.  His mother answered the door, and it slid up to reveal Snot Rod.  _Great,_ Wingo thought dismally.  _That’s all I need, for word to get out that I’m grounded._

“Well, hello there, Rodney,” Wingo’s mother greeted the orange Barracuda.  Wingo had to smile a little.  Snot Rod wasn’t much of a nickname, but it sure beat Rodney.

“Hi, Mrs. Silvia,” Snot Rod sniffed.  “Is Wingo home?”

“Yes, but he’s grounded.”  Wingo cringed.  “Wasn’t your mother mad about the trouble you boys got into?”

Snot Rod scuffed a tire on the ground.  “Well, uh--”

“Never mind, dear.  Why don’t you go on to Win-- Wingo’s room.”  She smiled a little.  “His father said he couldn’t go out, but I don’t see why you can’t go in.”  Wingo silently thanked his mother for using his nickname instead of calling him “Wingman” like she usually did.

Wingo rolled back from his door just in time.  A second later, Snot Rod bumped against it with a tire.

“Wingo?”

“Yeah.  Come in.”

Snot Rod made his way into the room and shut the door behind him.  “I just came to tell you, Boost and DJ are grounded too, but they’re going to sneak out after midnight and go pick up the twins.”

“Forget that,” Wingo grumbled.  “My dad nearly blew a gasket as it is.  If I get caught sneaking out, he’ll probably put a boot on me.”

“Oh.  Well, I’ll let you know if anything cool happens.”

“You mean cool like ‘putting trucks to sleep on a busy interstate cool’?”

“Yeah!” Snot Rod said brightly.  He blinked at the deadpan expression Wingo shot him and frowned.  “Uh. . . was that. . . sarcasm?”

“What are you even doing here?” Wingo said in exasperation.  “You could have just called.”

“I thought you _liked_ putting trucks to sleep.”

“For Chrysler’s sake, do you always have to be two steps behind everyone else?” Wingo snapped.

Snot Rod narrowed his green eyes.  “I came here to check on you.  You were acting so weird this morning, but it looks like you’re fine _now_.”

“How would you know?” Wingo muttered.

“Well, you’re being a jerk to me just like always, so everything must be back to normal!”  Snot Rod’s exclamation would have sounded a lot more forceful if it hadn’t been punctuated with a huge sneeze.  It propelled him forward into the door, which he opened with a rather sheepish expression.  “I won’t tell Boost and DJ why you’re not coming tonight,” he mumbled as he left.

 _That’s all I need, a guilt trip from Snot Rod,_ Wingo thought grumpily.  So what if he was mean to the Barracuda?  Boost and DJ were worse-- and heck, Snot Rod deserved it!  He was so much less coordinated than the others, always the last in line. . . and then there was the sneezing.

And Wingo still felt guilty, despite everything.

\--

Late that night, Wingo was awakened by the sound of engines revving.  He had been dreaming that he was watching McQueen race, and for a moment he thought the noise was just part of the dream-- and then he heard a sneeze.

Wingo slipped out of his room and peeked out between the curtains of the front window of the garage.  Sure enough, the other tuners were idling in the street in front of his house.  Boost honked loudly, then turned to DJ.  Wingo nudged the window up a crack to hear what he was saying.

“--told you Wingnut’s grounded and too scared to sneak out.”  Wingo ground his teeth.  He _hated_ it when they called him Wingnut; it was worse than his real name.

“He’s not, I swear!” Snot Rod protested.  “I was there this afternoon and--”

“Then why isn’t he out here with us?” Boost interrupted.

“He said he was tired!”

“Shut up, Shot Rod,” DJ groaned.  Scowling, Wingo slid the window shut and went back to his room.  Let them go flirt with those little air-headed Miatas-- he had better things to waste his gasoline on.

\--

At breakfast the next morning, Wingo was morosely slurping a glass of oil when his mother cleared her throat and nudged his father.  Mr. Silvia cleared _his_ throat and looked a bit embarrassed.

“Son, your mother and I had a talk and. . . well, we decided that one day of being grounded was enough on top of what you’ve already been through,” his father muttered.

Wingo looked up in surprise.  “Really?”

“We heard your friends outside last night,” Mrs. Silvia said.  “Your father was sure you were going to try to sneak out with them--”

“I didn’t say I was _sure_ \--”

“--and since you didn’t, you proved that we could trust you.”

“. . . Thanks,” Wingo mumbled.  He didn’t really like thanking his parents for the freedom he thought should be his by right, but then again, he didn’t want to push his luck by acting ungrateful.

Wingo left as soon as he finished his oil, just in case his father changed his mind.  For a while he just rode up and down the streets; then he found himself driving towards Snot Rod’s house.

 _I guess I should apologize to him,_ Wingo thought as the blocks flew by.  _After all, he **did** stick up for me._

Snot Rod’s two little sisters were playing in the street in front of the garage where the three kids lived with their mother.  As distracted as he was, Wingo nearly slammed into the younger one, putting on his brakes just in time.

“Hiiii, Wingo,” Georgia, the older of the two cooed.  She was a white Dodge Neon SXT, just old enough to be getting interested in boys.  Her brother’s friends were, of course, the perfect victims.

“You two shouldn’t be in the street.”  Wingo shooed them back into their yard.

“You mean you’re afraid I’ll get hurt?” Georgia asked dreamily.

“No, you’re blocking the traffic.”  The other girl, a dark blue Neon SE named Abigail, giggled at her sister and stuck out her tongue.

“Listen, is your brother home?” Wingo asked.

“Yeah, I think so.  _Hey Snot-Brains!_ ” Abigail shrieked.

“Don’t call me that!” Snot Rod’s voice issued from somewhere inside the garage.

“One of your friends is here!” Abigail bellowed on.  “The one with the thing on his butt!”

“I have a name,” Wingo groaned.

“All of his friends have things on their butts,” Georgia hissed at her sister.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” Snot Rod yelled.  A moment later he emerged from the garage, looking surprised when he saw Wingo.

“Oh. . . h-hey--ahhhhh--ahhhhhh-- _choo_!”

“Hey, Snot Rod,” Wingo sighed.  He glanced at the two girls; Georgia was ogling him, and Abigail was playing in the sand singing something about the posteriors of cars.  “Uh. . . Georgia, could you do me a big favor?”

“Anything!”

“Take Abigail inside for a while.”

“Oh.”  Georgia’s face fell and she sighed dramatically.  “Well, if that’s what you want. . . although I don’t know why you want to talk to my stupid brother anyway.”  As she coaxed her sister inside, she hissed, “Dork!” at Snot Rod.

“I guess you’re not grounded anymore,” Snot Rod said awkwardly when the girls were gone.

“Yeah.  So, uh, how did it go last night?”

“Not too well.  By the time we got to Radiator Springs, the cafe had closed down and the twins were asleep.  We just turned around and came home.”  He shrugged.  “It wasn’t any fun without you anyway.”

“Oh.”  Wingo studied the pile of sand Abigail had left behind.  “Um, Snot Rod. . . sorry I was a jerk to you yesterday.”

“Thanks, Wingo.  I’m sorry too.”

“Hunh?  For what?”

Snot Rod turned a little so he could see Wingo past the monstrosity on his hood.  “For getting on your nerves.”  Before Wingo could think of a reply, the Barracuda went on, “But are you really okay?  You’ve been acting awful weird.”

“Yeah.  I’m okay.”  Wingo paused a moment, then turned back to Snot Rod.  “Hey-- you want to go out for a while?  Just the two of us?”

Snot Rod’s eyes lit up.  “Yeah!  Where to?”

“Nowhere-- just out in the desert.”  Wingo revved his engine a little.  “I just want to drive.”

For once, the tuners didn’t take the interstate as they headed out into the desert.  Wingo wasn’t sure where he intended to go; he just wanted to get away from. . . well, everything.  It was nice to avoid the traffic and the boring straightness of the interstate, and it was nice to play his own music without the constant boom of DJ’s bass nearby.  Wingo switched among the techno CDs in his changer for a while, then turned off his radio.

“Your turn.”

“Hunh?”  Snot Rod took his eyes off the road to look questioningly at Wingo.  He drifted towards the curb, then yelped and skidded back into the middle of his lane.

“Put on some music.”

“Oh!  Wow, I _never_ get to pick the music!  Let’s see. . . .”  He paused, then grinned sheepishly.  “I don’t have a CD changer so I’ll just have to play what’s in now--”

Wingo sighed.  “Just do it, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, doing it.”  Snot Rod started playing something soft, and Wingo looked at him sideways.  Snot Rod ducked his hood a little.  “It gets better.”  A moment later a steady beat picked up, and Wingo smiled a little.

“Not bad.”

“Yeah,” Snot Rod said happily.  “It’s one of my favorite songs.”

Wingo didn’t pay much attention to the lyrics at first, but after a while the song’s chorus worked its way into his brain.  “Alone, alone, I’m all alone. . . .”  He looked at Snot Rod again to see the orange car driving along with a blissful expression on his face.  Wingo wondered if that was how he really felt, always driving along behind the others, ignored.  Looked at the way Lightning McQueen had looked at Wingo.

They were somewhere out in Ornament Valley when the sound of engines other than their own broke in over their music.  Glancing toward the noise, Wingo spotted what looked like the reflection of sunlight off several car hoods.

“Hey, stop a minute,” he called to Snot Rod.  The Barracuda pulled up next to him as Wingo squinted toward the light through his sunglass panel.

“What’s going on?” Snot Rod asked.

“I dunno.”  Wingo grinned.  “Let’s go find out.”

He pulled off the pavement onto a dirt track and picked his way toward the crowd, wincing at the dust that immediately coated his carriage.

“Ahh--ahhh-- _choo_!” Snot Rod contributed.  “Stupid dust.”

As they drew closer, Wingo saw a flash of red fly by in front of the crowd of cars, closely followed by a matching blue streak.  He bit his lip.  It was a race, and he only knew of one red flash out in the desert.

A few of the cars in the crowd were familiar to Wingo from his stay in Radiator Springs: Ramone, Sally Carrera, and Red the fire truck, who was waving a little pennant from his antenna.  He had never seen the others before, a group of four older-model cars with racing numbers painted on their sides.

“Hunh, they’re racing,” Snot Rod sniffed.

 _Master of the obvious,_ Wingo thought.  He crept up behind Red where he hoped he wouldn’t be noticed.  He peered around the fire truck to get a look at the racers.  He had been right; the red flash was McQueen, and the blue one appeared to be Doc Hudson.

“Hey, Wingo. . . .”  Snot Rod nudged him with a tire.

“Not now.”  Wingo watched the race intently, hoping to see McQueen lose.

“But look, up there-- it’s Boost and DJ.”

“What?”  Wingo looked back up to the road.  Sure enough, Boost and DJ were pulling to a stop where Wingo and Snot Rod had left the road.  Boost motioned with a tire for Wingo and Snot Rod to join them, but Wingo turned back to the race.

“Uh, I think they want us to come up there,” Snot Rod said nervously.

“Go on, then,” grumbled Wingo.  “I’ll be there in a minute.”

Snot Rod reluctantly rolled back up the bank as Wingo kept his eyes glued on the race.  He watched as McQueen shot past the finish line barely a bumper before Doc Hudson.  Wingo growled under his breath and turned to go up to the road.

“I see ol’ Wingnut got off of being grounded,” he heard Boost saying to Snot Rod as he approached.

“He wasn’t grounded.  And don’t call him that-- you know he doesn’t like it.”

DJ snickered a little.  “Gosh, you’re so considerate.”

Wingo joined them up on the road, unable to keep a note of irritation from his voice.  “What are you doing here?”

“ _We_ should be asking _you_ that,” Boost retorted.

“We just wanted to go for a drive,” Wingo shot back.

“Since when are you two so close?”  DJ looked from one to the other.  “I’ve never see you drive off by yourselves before.”

“Last I heard, there wasn’t a rule that the four of us had to do everything together,” Wingo replied in what he hoped was a tone of finality.  “And if you don’t have any plans for us, we’re going to--”

“Actually, I do have a plan.”  Boost revved his engine and started toward Radiator Springs.  “Come on.”  Wingo glared at his back bumper, but found himself following the tuners’ leader anyway.

\--

Boost’s “plan” was to head up to Tailfin Pass and look for someone to harass.  The four drove around for a while running cars off the road and knocking down signs; then Boost had them block one of the many smaller side trails in the pass.  It might have been more interesting if someone actually wanted to use the trail, but Boost seemed pleased with himself.

They had waited almost half an hour when Boost grinned.  “I hear someone coming-- get ready.”

To Wingo’s dismay, the squealing tires belonged to none other than Lightning McQueen.  He pulled up to the trail and looked the four tuners over.  Snot Rod slunk behind the others, but Boost and DJ stood their ground.

“Sorry, chief,” Boost announced.  “Road’s closed.”

McQueen looked up and down the road.  “Looks all right to me.”

“He means,” DJ clarified, “it’s closed to you.”

“What’s that?  I can’t hear you.”

“I _said_ it’s closed to _you_ ,” DJ said louder.

“Nope, still gettin’ nothin’.”  McQueen glanced up at the sky nonchalantly.  DJ glowered and switched off his music.

 _DJ, you idiot,_ Wingo thought.  _He could hear you just fine._    He was so irritated with the whole situation, he snapped aloud, “He _said_ get lost, pal!” to McQueen.  Then McQueen looked at him and raised one half of his windshield.  Wingo cringed, certain that the race car was going to humiliate him in front of his friends.

“Oh what, are you gonna slice and dice me with your spoiler?” McQueen asked archly.  Wingo just stared at him.  There were all the things McQueen could have revealed about their earlier conversation-- and all he did was make a crack about Wingo’s spoiler?

“Hey, wait a--” DJ began, but McQueen interrupted him.

“Tell you what, subwoofer, three laps oughta settle this.  Me, you, and your little tweeter friends.  When I win, you let me pass.  Oh,” he added, eyeing Boost, “and you can throw in one of your boost canisters.”  At Boost’s horrified expression, McQueen chuckled.  “Seriously, do you really need that much boost?”

Wingo looked over at Boost to see what he would decide.  In a way, Wingo wanted him to blow McQueen off-- the longer he talked to them, the more likely he would bring up Wingo’s night chat with him.  But in another way. . . this was his chance to race a real race car.  To show Lightning McQueen that a prissy little tuner could do a lot more than he thought.

Boost looked at McQueen, then set his teeth.  “Okay.  Let’s do this.”

The route McQueen chose consisted of a few of the winding paths of the Pass, along with an old line of railroad tracks that cut through one of the mountains.  Neither McQueen nor the tuners had much of an advantage-- they were all used to flat, even roads with nice, wide turns.  With his lack of coordination, Snot Rod fell back immediately, despite the speed boosts his sneezes gave him.  DJ did only a little better.  Wingo was able to keep up with McQueen for a while, but when the race car took a shortcut through the mountain Wingo hadn’t even seen, he gained the advantage.  After that, try as he might Wingo just couldn’t catch up.  _It’s up to you, Boost,_ he thought, but deep down, he hoped Boost would lose too.

And he did.  McQueen beat them all back to the starting point after the third lap.  He gave the tuners a triumphant grin, and they all slumped.  DJ’s lower lip quivered.

McQueen frowned.  “Aw guys, c’mon.  Don’t be so hard on yourselves.  You need to relax more. . . just slow down and take a cruise sometime!”

Boost would have none of it.  “This isn’t over, McQueen,” he hissed before turning his back on the race car and driving back towards Radiator Springs.  Wingo followed him sullenly.  So McQueen was right-- Wingo couldn’t make it out there.  None of the tuners could.

Meanwhile, Boost was raving.  “He’s gonna pay for this!  _No one_ makes a fool out of Boost!”

“Uh. . . how _are_ we gonna to make him pay?” Snot Rod asked.

“I don’t know yet,” Boost muttered.  “But we are, trust me.”

\--

They got a chance to “make him pay” quicker than even Boost thought.  The four tuners had barely gotten back into Ornament Valley on their way to I-40 when someone hailed them from the side of the road.

“Hey.  Dudes.”

“Uh, is he talking to us?” DJ asked.

Boost took one glace at the green car who had called to them and sped up.  “Keep on going.”

“Hey, wait!”  The car dashed through the sand and pulled onto the road ahead of the four.  “I want to talk to you.”

Boost stopped short and glared at the stranger.  “What about?”

Wingo noticed with some interest that it was a race car who had stopped them.  He looked vaguely familiar, but he was an 80’s Buick Regal stock-car, which explained why Wingo wouldn’t have paid much attention to him in the racing magazines.  He had a large mustache and was plastered all over with sponsor stickers.

“I have a proposition for you,” the green car announced.  “I heard you kids were the ones who ran down Lightning McQueen’s truck a few weeks ago.”

“We didn’t know it was his truck,” DJ said quickly.  “And we didn’t mean to knock him out of it--”

“Shut up, DJ,” Boost hissed.  DJ looked offended that it was he and not Snot Rod being shushed for once.  “Yeah,” Boost went on, “that was us.  What of it?”

“Think you’re up to a repeat performance?”

“Forget it,” Wingo said abruptly, surprising everyone.  “Almost getting someone killed isn’t worth it for a prank.”

The race car chuckled.  “No, no, McQueen isn’t gonna be in the trailer-- just his stuff.  That big dumb driver of his is going to pick up some of McQueen’s new gear this afternoon, and he’ll be coming back here on the interstate.  I just want you to get the gear out of the trailer.  I’ll make it worth your while,” he added.

“How much?” Boost immediately asked.

“How does $50 apiece sound?”

Boost scoffed.  “Higher.”

“All right, all right,” the race car grumbled.  “$100 each.”

“Done,” Boost agreed.  “If that’s all right with _you_ , Wingo.”  He glared at Wingo.

“Fine.”  As long as McQueen wasn’t going to be directly involved, it _was_ fine with Wingo.  In fact, it would solve a lot of problems at once.  Wingo could get back at McQueen for his comments _and_ for beating the tuners in the race. . . and he’d get paid for it too.

“Great!” the green car replied.  “Hang on to McQueen’s gear then meet me at the Ornament Valley interstate exit tomorrow night.  I’ll pay you when you bring me the stuff.”

“Think we can trust him?” DJ asked Boost after they had parted ways with the race car and headed for the interstate.  “We don’t even know his name.”

“Doesn’t really matter,” Boost replied with a smirk.  “Even if he backs out, we’ll still get to mess with McQueen.”

The tuners drove up the interstate about twenty miles and pulled off to plan their attack.  Snot Rod was sent all the way home to pick up a trailer from among the other junk in his mom’s yard.  After evening fell, they started out along the interstate to look for Mack, McQueen’s driver.  At first there was no sign of the truck, and Wingo began to think that Mr. Mustache had stood them up.  He _was_ a race car after all, and he could have even been a friend of McQueen’s.  Maybe the whole story was a lie, and they would wait there all night--

“There he is,” Boost announced.  “We all set?”  Wingo looked down the interstate just in time to see Mack disappearing into the distance.

DJ, who was first in line for the heist, pulled ahead of the others with a grin.  “Oh, it’s on!”

The other three stayed back out of the way while DJ caught up to Mack and lulled him to sleep with soothing music.  (Wingo still wondered just what DJ was doing with Kenny G CDs in his changer.)  Once the truck was dozing, DJ phoned Boost, who sped up to complete his assignment: jump up on top of Mack’s trailer and open it.

Wingo glanced at Snot Rod, who was lagging behind him in his struggle with the bulky trailer he pulled.  “You okay back there?”

Snot Rod nodded as best he could.  “Yeah.”

Before Wingo could say any more, Boost’s call to him came through.  “Okay, I’m good.  Your turn, Wingo.”

“On my way,” Wingo smirked.  Time to pay Lightning McQueen back for everything.

Wingo’s task was to scoop up all of McQueen’s gear that fell out of Mack’s trailer, and toss it back to the trailer Snot Rod pulled.  It was amazing how much junk the race car kept in his trailer-- everything from TVs to trophies whacked Wingo in the bumper as he chased after the crates that tumbled out.  Somehow he managed to collect all five crates by catching them on his front bumper and flipping them back to Snot Rod.  He was afraid Snot Rod would sneeze and get ahead of him, but the Barracuda showed remarkable restraint.

Wingo pulled up even with DJ, who was still lurking in front of Mack to keep him asleep.  “Got the goods,” Wingo told him as he passed.  “I’m ghost!”  He dashed off ahead of the others.  He heard a prodigious sneeze from Snot Rod as he passed Mack, followed by the rev of Boost’s engines as he leapt off the trailer and followed the other three tuners.

They got off the interstate at the next exit and gathered just out of reach of the bright white lights of a gas station.  “What now?” DJ asked Boost.

“We gotta hold on to this stuff until tomorrow night.  I say we split it up.  That way, if one of us gets caught, the other three can still deliver the rest of the gear.”

“Y-you think one of us is gonna get caught?” Snot Rod stammered.

“If anyone does, it’ll be your fault,” Boost snapped.  “You and your stupid sneezing woke that truck up.  I know he saw you and me, maybe DJ too.  You just better hope he doesn’t recognize you.”

Snot Rod slumped so low, it looked as if his tires were flat.  Wingo felt bad for him, but Boost had a point.  Mack would have had no idea what hit him if he had stayed asleep. . . .

“Let’s just divide this stuff and get going,” DJ muttered.  “We’re supposed to meet the twins in an hour.”

“Good thing it’s outside of that redneck sand trap they call a town,” Boost said with a pointed look at Snot Rod.

They opened the crates of racing supplies and divided the gear up among the four of them.  “You go lose those crates somewhere,” Boost ordered Snot Rod.  “And don’t forget to be at the next exit tomorrow night to deliver the stuff.”

“Sure, Boost.”  Snot Rod started to drive off, then stopped and looked back at Wingo.  “Uh, you want to come with me?”

“Actually the twins wanted to us to bring you along, Wingnut,” Boost interrupted.  “Said they know a little Kia they might could introduce you to.”

Wingo didn’t really care to meet any friend of the bubbly red twins, but he didn’t want to be seen with Snot Rod when he dumped the crates emblazoned with Lightning McQueen’s logo, either.  “Sounds good, Boost,” he replied.  “I’ll catch you later, Snot Rod.”

“Okay,” Snot Rod said forlornly.  As he turned towards the on-ramp that lead back to his home, Boost and DJ started for the one pointing towards Radiator Springs.  Wingo followed them to the Springs’s exit where Mia and Tia met them a little while later.

“So, what music would you ladies like to hear?” DJ asked as they cruised along the interstate.

“Umm. . . do you have any Avril Lavan?” one of the girls asked.  Wingo had no idea which one; he doubted he’d ever be able to tell them apart.

“Uh, no.”

“Carstina Aguilera?”

“No.”

“Britney Gears?”

“ _No_.”

“Don’t you have _any_ good music?” the other twin blurted out.  Wingo was already wishing he had gone with Snot Rod instead.

\--

Half an hour later, Wingo was on the interstate headed for home.

“But we haven’t even told you about Sophia yet!” one of the twins had protested when he made his escape.  “You’d really like her!  She’s sooooo cute!”

Wingo’s reply that he was already “talking to someone” got him a strange look from the other tuners, but he didn’t care.  He would have said just about anything to get away from the Miatas’ inane chatter.

 _I’d rather date Snot Rod’s sister than anyone like them,_ he thought as he weaved his way through the interstate traffic.

Wingo stayed close to home the next day until evening, figuring the less he was seen near Radiator Springs, the better.  Once the sun set, he started back towards the exit, looking forward to dumping the gear he was carrying on the green race car.  He wasn’t sure why ol’ Mustache wanted the stuff in the first place, unless he had some issue with McQueen himself.  But whatever-- all that mattered was that Wingo had made McQueen pay.

Or so he thought until he heard tires squealing behind him on the interstate, followed by a fierce bump to his back end.

“ _Ow_!” Wingo cried, jolted forward by the force of the impact.  Worst of all, one of the bundles of McQueen’s gear was jostled out of his trunk.  Wingo was horrified to see McQueen himself in his rear view mirror.  Wingo tried to speed up, but McQueen stayed right behind him.

“Give it up, kid!” the race car called.  “I’ve already gotten my stuff back from two of your friends, and Sheriff’s got them in custody.  It’ll be easier for you if you just--”

“Forget it!” Wingo yelled back.  “You want to see what a prissy little import tuner can do-- you got it!”  He gunned his engine and started to weave in and out of the traffic as fast as he could.  He almost lost McQueen for a moment, but then the race car caught up and gave him another sound bump.  Wingo winced as he felt one side of his spoiler crack.

“If that’s how you want it, fine!” McQueen shouted.  He rammed into Wingo one more time and caught the last bundle of gear as Wingo dropped it.  Without another word, McQueen darted around him and raced on up the interstate.

Sore and out of breath, Wingo pulled off to the side of the road.  So Boost had been right-- Mack _had_ recognized the tuners thanks to Snot Rod’s sneeze.  And if Sheriff already had two of the four in custody, it was only a matter of time before he picked up Wingo too.  There wasn’t any point in running anymore.

With a sigh, Wingo merged back into traffic and headed for Radiator Springs to turn himself in.

\--

DJ and Snot Rod were already back in the impound, and the Sheriff showed up with Boost in tow a little while later.  Sheriff and McQueen parked themselves in front of the impound gates and glared at the four tuners.

“Aw man, you busted my subwoofer!” DJ wailed.

“And look at my spoiler!” Wingo couldn’t help but add.  “It’s cracked!”

“You’re lucky that’s the worst that happened, son,” Sheriff replied.  “Do you have any idea how much damage you could have caused?”

“Hey, it wasn’t our idea!” Boost protested.  “Some race car paid us off.”

McQueen blinked.  “A race car?”

“Yeah,” Wingo told him.  “Some green race car. . . I dunno, he had a mustache.”

“Ah,” McQueen said knowingly.  “Chick.”

“Uh, no, it was a guy,” Snot Rod rolled his eyes.  “Mustache?”

“No, his _name_ is Chick,” McQueen clarified.  “Chick Hicks.”

“And I thought Snot Rod was a stupid name,” DJ muttered.

“Look, you got your stuff back,” Boost said to McQueen.  “Can’t you let us go?”

“Let you go?” Sheriff spluttered.  “All that nitrous must be going to your head, boy!”

“Maybe if things were different,” McQueen replied, “but like I told Sheriff, you can mess with me, but you can’t mess with my friends.  You could have really hurt Mack, and this is the second time you’ve done it, too!  Worse than that, you made him feel bad.  He blamed himself for _your_ childish prank.”

“But I told you, it wasn’t our idea!” Boost protested.

“My parents are going to kill me,” Wingo muttered.  “They were mad enough when I got impounded the first time.”

“Maybe if they had disciplined you more--” Sheriff began.

“It’s not their fault!” Wingo snapped before he realized that interrupting the Sheriff might not be such a good idea.  “They grounded me after the first time, but they let me go out again because. . . they thought they could trust me.”

“They weren’t the only ones,” Snot Rod said to no one in particular.  Wingo stared at him past DJ, but Snot Rod appeared to be studying his own supercharger.

“Told you he was grounded,” Boost whispered to DJ over Snot Rod’s roof.

The Sheriff looked at McQueen and raised half of his windshield.  McQueen returned the look, then rolled over in front of Wingo.  “Well?  Can _we_ trust you?”

“Hunh?” Wingo blinked at him.

“Suppose, since this wasn’t your idea as your purple friend keeps saying, and since I _did_ get my gear back, and since Mack _wasn’t_ hurt. . . . suppose we let you go.  Can we trust you not to cause any more trouble?”

“Now wait just a minute--” Sheriff blustered, but McQueen stopped him.

“They could spend the evening doing community service,” he suggested.  “Say, washing oil cans at Flo’s or something.  But there’s no sense in keeping them over night and worrying their parents all over again. . . if we have their word they’ll stay in line after this.”  He looked sharply at Wingo.

“I promise,” Wingo said quietly.  “I’ll do whatever you want.”  He paused, then added, “I give up.”  Everyone except McQueen gave him a puzzled look, but McQueen just nodded.

“What about the rest of you?”

“Yeah, whatever,” Boost said.  “Anything to get out of this trashy yard.”

The tuners spent the next four hours at Flo’s.  Wingo and DJ got stuck on can-washing duty, while Snot Rod scrubbed every inch of the lot, and Boost created elaborate displays of stacked oil and gasoline cans under Flo’s watchful eye.  (Wingo overheard Sheriff chuckling about that and accusing Flo of being more interested in the physique of the convict than the tidiness of her cans.)  By midnight, Wingo was exhausted and certain the rubber on his tires was cracked from being immersed so long in soapy water.  As he slunk out of the parking lot, he could feel McQueen watching him from where the race car sat by one of the pumps.

Wingo stopped, staring down at the cement in front of his tires.  “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Yeah.  Just remember-- you promised.”

“I know.”  Suddenly, Wingo was tired of feeling bad. . . and of feeling guilty.  “And I’m sorry.”

For the first time since Wingo had seen him, McQueen actually looked startled.  “Hunh?”

“I’m sorry.  For messing with your driver.  Both times.”

“Oh.”  McQueen smiled a little.  “Apology accepted.”

Well, that was one down.  Wingo looked around for Snot Rod, but the Barracuda was nowhere to be found.  Boost and DJ were leaving together, but Snot Rod had apparently already gone home.

“Hey kid,” McQueen said suddenly.  “I’m sorry too.  I might have judged you too quickly-- you certainly can move, at least.”

“Uh. . . thanks?”

“If you’re still serious about this race car thing. . . there’s some cars I could introduce you to.  If you’re interested, I’ll be around here tomorrow at noon.”

Wingo looked at him suspiciously, but McQueen looked like he meant it.  “I might come by if I have time.”

McQueen chuckled.  “Sure, kid.”

“And my name is Wingo.  Not ‘kid.’”

“Okay.  Wingo.  Sorry about that, but usually _I’m_ the one who gets called a kid.  It’s nice to have someone younger to pick on every once in a while.”

Wingo almost fell asleep himself on the drive home.  He didn’t think he had ever been so relieved before to crawl into his room and rest his tires on his plush mat.  Thank the manufacturer he wasn’t spending the night at the impound instead.

After the ache in his wheels eased, Wingo’s thoughts turned to Snot Rod.  What had he meant about not trusting Wingo?  Maybe he was still mad about Wingo choosing Boost and DJ over him the night before.  _But they’re all my friends,_ he thought a little angrily.  _And I spent the whole morning with him!  I shouldn’t have to feel guilty for going out with the others for a little while._   Nevertheless, Wingo debated a moment over calling Snot Rod on his cell phone, but before he could make up his mind, he fell into a heavy sleep.

\--

Wingo slept late the next morning, exhausted from being chased and subjected to four hours of dishwashing.  In fact, he didn’t wake up until his mother poked her hood in his room to check on him.

“Wingman, honey?  Are you still asleep?”

“Nnnn. . . I was,” he groaned.  “It’s too early, Mom. . . .”

“Dear, it’s eleven o’clock.”

“Hunh?”  Wingo’s eyes flew open.  “Already?  I’m gonna be late!”

“Late for what?”  Mrs. Silvia blinked as her son raced past her and out the door of their garage.  “. . . Don’t you want some breakfast?”

Wingo dashed for the interstate, then sped along at 80 miles per hour-- he knew from past experience that he could get away with exactly ten miles above the posted speed limit, and no more.  He figured he could just make it to Radiator Springs to meet McQueen by noon, provided there weren’t any wrecks or road construction along the way.

Halfway there, he remembered Snot Rod.  He still was irritated that the Barracuda was on his mind that much, but Wingo decided to call him any way and find out what he was so miffed about.  He called Snot Rod’s house on his internal cell phone-- by the time he had finished paying for his paint job and supercharger, Snot Rod hadn’t been able to afford a cell phone too-- and grumbled impatiently to himself as the phone rang and rang.  He was about to hang up when someone finally picked up the phone.

“Hello?” a little girl’s voice said.  Abigail.

“Uh, hi, is Sno-- er, Rodney there?”

“Yeah.”  Wingo waited to the sound of a Neon engine humming on the other end of the line.

After almost a minute, he ventured, “Uh, can I talk to him?”

“Oh, you wanted to talk to him?  Okay.”  A moment later, as he was merging onto the exit ramp for Radiator Springs, he heard Abigail yelling, “ _Snoooooot Brains_!  Your friend with the thing on his butt wants you!”  Wingo prayed that Georgia wouldn’t overhear and get to the phone before Snot Rod could.

Finally he heard a sniff.  “Hello?”

“Hey.  It’s, uh. . . it’s Wingo.”

“Oh, hey man.  You finally get done washing dishes?”

“Very funny.”  Wingo rolled his eyes even as he smiled a little.  Snot Rod sounded like his usual congested self.  “I was, uh, gonna drive home with you last night, but you had already left.”

“You were?  Oh man, I’m sorry, I thought. . . you’d be going out with that Kia or something.”

Wingo blinked.  “What Kia?”

“The one the twins were supposed to introduce you to,” Snot Rod said a little sullenly.

“Oh, that.  I never even met her-- trust me, the last thing I need is a girl anything like those two.  Boost and DJ must be pretty desperate.”

Snot Rod sounded relieved as he laughed.  “I guess so.  So you want to come over or something?  I’m not doing anything. . . .”

Wingo bit his lip.  “Um, I can’t.  I’ve sort of. . . got somewhere to go.”

“Oh.”  Snot Rod was silent for so long, Wingo thought he had hung up, until a loud sneeze informed him otherwise.  “Wingo. . . .”

“Look, I can’t tell you-- I mean, I don’t even know what it is myself yet, but it’s not a girl, I. . . I just. . . .”

“Uh, Wingo, do you owe somebody some money or something?  You’ve been acting really weird lately.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”  In frustration, Wingo pulled off into the sand on the side of the road and closed his eyes.  “Snot Rod, I’ll. . . I’ll come over tonight and tell you about it.  I promise.”

“You really promise?  You’re not going to blow me off for the others again?”

“I really promise.”

“Okay. . . just be careful, Wingo.”  He snuffled, then added quietly, “I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

The words gave Wingo a funny feeling in his engine.  No one except his parents had ever really seemed to care if anything happened to him or not.

“I’ll be fine, Snot Rod.  I’ll see you tonight.”

After he hung up, Wingo pulled back onto the road and headed for Radiator Springs.  He was a little surprised that, true to his word, Lightning McQueen was waiting for him at Flo’s.

“Hey, ki-- er, Wingo.  I sorta thought you weren’t going to show.”

“Sorry, I overslept.”

“Dishwashing took it out of you, hunh?  Anyway, if you still want to race, I have some ideas.  I’ve got a lot of races scheduled myself, so I won’t be around much to help you out,” McQueen went on.  “But my best friend’s cousin is an expert, and I bet he’d be willing to train you.  He’s non-professional though, you understand.”

“Oh sure, that’s fine,” Wingo replied quickly.  He hadn’t really expected anything at all from McQueen other than permission to watch him practice.  Actual training from an actual race car was beyond his wildest dreams.

Wingo followed McQueen out of town into Ornament Valley.  He assumed McQueen was headed for the interstate, and was surprised when the race car turned off the road across from an abandoned gas station instead.  They drove through the arch of a giant tire half-buried in the sand.

“Well, here we are,” McQueen announced.  Wingo looked up to see a run-down building that _might_ have been a stadium, sort of.  A sign mounted on its side read “Rustbucket Race-o-Rama.”

“Uh. . . okay.”  Wingo decided he could deal with a slightly hillbilly race track to start off with.  What else could he expect out in Ornament Valley?  Anyway, if the other race cars were a little run down, he would just look that much better in comparison.  “So what’s your friend’s cousin like?”  Maybe he was one of the four race cars Wingo had seen watching McQueen a few days ago.

McQueen chuckled.  “Let’s just say Tommy Joe is in a class by himself.”

“. . . Tommy Joe?”  That didn’t sound good.

“Yeah.  He should be here any-- oh, hey, there’s Mater.  _Hey, Mater_!” McQueen bellowed.  Wingo saw Radiator Spring’s tow truck-- the same one that had been singing “Achy Breaky Heart”-- turn off the road and drive up to them.

“Hey, Lightnin’!” the truck grinned.  “Who’s the new guy with the thing on his butt?”

“This is Wingo.  Wingo, this is Mater-- my best friend.”

Wingo flicked up his sunglass windshield shade for a better look.  Yes, that was definitely the rustiest vehicle he had ever seen, and yes, McQueen had just called him his best friend.

Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

“Mater, is Tommy Joe around?” McQueen was asking as Wingo fretted.  “Wingo here wants to race, and since I’ve got all these races with Chick coming up, I’m not going to have time to show him the ropes.  I thought maybe Tommy Joe could help out.”

“Shooooot!” exclaimed Mater.  “He’d love to!  He’s the best racin’ car in Carburetor County!” he said to Wingo.  “Well, before Lightnin’ here made Radiator Springs his headquarters.”

“Uh, great.  What color is, ah, Tommy Joe?  I think I might have seen him around,” Wingo asked, hoping to figure out which of the cars he had seen was Tommy Joe.

“Wallll, he useta be white,” Mater mused, “but now he’s a sorta brownish-red round the edges.  Shoot, it’ll be easier to just show ya!  Wait right here, I’ll go find him!”  Mater rolled off towards the Rustbucket cheerfully, his tow hook swinging from side to side.

“Brownish-red?”  Wingo groaned.  “I should have expected this from someone with Rust-Eze as their sponsor.”

McQueen smirked.  “Tommy Joe may not be much to look at, but just see if you can keep up with him.”

Tommy Joe certainly _wasn’t_ anything to look at.  As Mater approached with him, Wingo got a good look at the boxy, rusted white car with dusty tires and corroded rims.

“Hey there, sport!” Tommy Joe called.  Before Wingo realized what was happening, the old car rolled forward and gave him a hood butt in greeting.  Wingo winced as a piece of paint flaked off his bumper.  “So you wanter larn to race, hunh?”

“I did, anyway,” Wingo muttered.

“Wallll, you’re in luck, son.  We’re just fixin’ to have a race here in about half an hour.  You’re welcome to take a practice run with us if you want.”

Wingo watched McQueen talking with Mater a few yards away.  “Is McQueen running in it?”

“Naw, he’s gotta rest up for the next Piston Cup qualifier, so he’s just gonna watch.  It’s just gonna be me and Mater and a few of our buddies.  None of those flashy race car types, just us good ol’ boys.”

“I. . . see.”  Still, as Wingo thought about it, it began to seem like a good idea.  He was certain to win a race against a bunch of rusty old cars.  If McQueen were watching, maybe he would be impressed with Wingo and change his mind about not training him himself.

Wingo took a deep breath and hitched up his back bumper to make his spoiler look as tall as possible.  “All right then.  Let’s get it on.”

\--

Inside the Rustbucket arena, Wingo found the eyes of about a dozen rusty cars turned on him.  For the first time, he wished he blended in with the crowd.  He especially didn’t like the way a group of three girl Blazers were ogling his spoiler.

“Good luck,” McQueen said as he passed Wingo on his way to a seat in the stands.  Wingo nodded, but he couldn’t help feeling that McQueen should be wishing his tow truck friend luck, instead of Wingo.  Mater looked like he would fall apart before he finished the first lap.

“This-here is just a practice race,” Tommy Joe explained as he took Wingo down to the starting line.  “Just four of us racing with you, and not many speck-taters.  You’ll get a feel for the track, kinda.  We’ll see how you do, and I can give you some advice from there.”

As Wingo edged up to the starting line, Tommy Joe pulled up on one side of him, and Mater on the other.  Two other junky cars lined up to Tommy Joe’s left.

“Now this track has a couple jumps in it,” Tommy Joe went on.  “You might wanter get an extra bit o’ speed to make ‘em.  We’re gonna do six laps ‘stead of twelve like usual, since this is for practice.”

“Yeah, great, let’s go,” Wingo muttered, revving his engine.

Tommy Joe just chuckled and nodded to a pick-up truck parked nearby, who held the green starting flag.  The truck, who seemed to be more rust than metal and whose front license plate proclaimed him to be “Fred,” grinned broadly and dropped the flag.  Wingo zipped out ahead of the others and had a good head start before some of them even crossed the starting line.  One of the jumps Tommy Joe mentioned was only a few yards away, and Wingo gunned his engine to leap over it, gaining him even more of a lead.

 _Easy,_ he thought as he rounded the first curve of the track.  A little odd that it turned right instead of left, but that would have been a bigger obstacle if Wingo were used to racing on standard tracks.

Wingo was already certain he had the race locked up-- until he saw an oil barrel lying directly in his path.  Wingo swerved and avoided hitting it; the dodging skills the tuners used on the interstate paid off.  Still, the obstacle unnerved Wingo a little, and the other cars in the race gained a bit of ground.

Wingo was so busy watching for other cans, he forgot all about the second jump.  Without preparing for it, he lost the advantage of an extra burst of speed.  Tommy Joe, on the other tire, launched himself off the ramp and went sailing through the air, landing on the track even with Wingo.  Wingo glared and managed to get his speedometer up five more miles-- right before careening into a wooden crate.  He automatically slammed on his breaks, and the other three cars rushed past him.  For a moment, Wingo was afraid he had dented his bumper, then other worries set in as he realized he had fallen far behind.  He accelerated again and managed to catch up to Mater, who was in fourth place, but things just got worse.  No matter how fast Wingo went, the others still had an advantage: they were so rusty, they didn’t care about hitting a few debris.  While Wingo dodged every piece of trash on the track, the others plowed right through it.  They also didn’t seem to mind the windshield-rattling jolt they got from flying off the ramps.

The worst happened when a bent and dented barrel rolled into Wingo’s path just before one of the ramps.  Wingo swerved to avoid it, lost his grip on the dirt track, and skidded.  He found himself facing the wrong direction as his back tires slipped off the ramp.  There was a wrenching pain to his undercarriage as it scraped against the edge of the ramp, then he fell with a thud to the track several feet below.  Mater, who had fallen behind Wingo earlier, went flying over his head yelling “Weeeee-hoooo!”

Wingo only had one more lap to go, but the ache of his undercarriage forced him to go more slowly, and he came in last, several seconds after Mater.  Wingo wanted to slink out of the arena and never see any of them again, but Tommy Joe cornered him a few yards from the exit.

“Not bad for your first time racin’, son,” the old car said cheerfully.  “I think I fergot to mention that there’s always some ob-stake-uls on the track.  We hold the county demolition derbies and monster truck rallies here too, so no one ever gets ‘round to clearin’ the track.”

“Uh, I need to get going--” Wingo tried to excuse himself, but Tommy Joe wasn’t even listening.

“ _Hey McQueen_!” he bellowed.  As the race car rolled over, Tommy Joe went on, “How’d you think the kid did?”

Wingo stifled a groan of humiliation as McQueen chuckled.  “Well. . . maybe with some practice. . . .”

“Just you come by tomorrow afternoon,” Tommy Joe told Wingo.  “I’ll give you a few tips on racin’ on dirt, and you can do some practice laps.”

“Sure.  Thanks,” Wingo muttered.  “But I really need to--”

He was interrupted again, this time by the roar of engines and tires.  Very big tires.  He looked up to see three huge monster trucks crashing into the arena.

“Who’s that?” he asked McQueen, trying not to sound as nervous as the trucks made him feel.  It looked like just one of their tires could crush him flat.  The truck in front had horns mounted on his roof, sharp teeth, and a supercharger (though a smaller one than Snot Rod’s).  To his left was what looked like an ambulance mounted on a monster truck carriage.  The third truck had two exhaust pipes on either side of his cab, and didn’t look as if he were all there mentally.

“The one with the horns calls himself Count Spatula.  He’s not as bad as he looks, but I’d stay away from the other two if I were you.”  McQueen rolled his eyes and made a cuckoo noise.

“They use the Rustbucket fer their rallies,” Tommy Joe explained.  “I fergot they had one scheduled fer tonight. . . we better clear out.”

Apparently the trucks had exactly that in mind.  “Get out, you puny toys!” Count Spatula bellowed in what sounded to Wingo like an extremely fake Transylvanian accent.  “It is time for the _real_ cars to take this track!”

The rusty cars didn’t seem to want to argue, and most of them left the arena.  Wingo glared at the intruders.  “Who do they think they are, anyway?”

“Er, well, they think they’re big, and that they could squish us,” Tommy Joe suggested.  “And they’re right.”

“Hmph, I don’t think they’re so scary,” Wingo muttered, but despite his bravado, he was too tired and sore to want to fight with a bunch of trucks three times his size.  He started to follow McQueen and Tommy Joe out of the arena.

“ _Hey McQueen_!”

The race car cringed and turned around.  “What, Crippler?” he asked the ambulance truck flatly.

“Eheheh, that’s _the_ Crippler,” the white truck corrected with an unstable giggle.  “When you gonna race with us again?”

“Uh, it’s up to when Luigi wants to lend me the big tires,” McQueen replied nervously.

“Need someone to put ‘em on?  It’s been a while since I’ve gotten to do any _surgery_ ,” the Crippler jeered.  The third truck laughed maniacally.

“Th-that’s okay, I think Guido can handle it.”  McQueen nudged Wingo with a tire and hissed, “Get outta here.  He’s nuts.”

“Who’s your pretty little friend?” the Crippler said, rolling over for a better look at Wingo.  “Ooh, looks like you’ve been under the knife yourself, eheheh.”  He eyed Wingo’s spoiler.

“You’re a doctor?” Wingo asked incredulously.  The half-crazed look on the Crippler’s windshield made him doubt the monster truck had that great of a mat-side manner.

“Of course I am!” declared the Crippler.  He drove around Wingo in a slow circle.  “Thinking of having some work done?”

“No, I’m good.”  Wingo edged away from him.

“Vie don’t you stick around and vatch our rally?” Count Spatula asked.  “The new guys are alvays very impressed.”

“Uh, sorry, I can’t.  I’m supposed to go meet someone,” Wingo mumbled.

“Ah, bring her along!” Spatula enthused.  “She vill like you even more if you know such big, strong trucks as us!”

“I _really_ have to go, bye!”  Wingo zipped out of the arena and took off for the interstate as fast as he could go.  He heard Tommy Joe call something after him, but Wingo didn’t stick around to find out what it was.

On the way to Snot Rod’s garage, Wingo tried to decide what to do.  After his humiliating loss, he didn’t ever want to see Tommy Joe or McQueen or any of them again-- and yet, something in him wanted to prove himself, even more than before.

 _Maybe I’ll ask Snot Rod about it,_ he thought.  Now that would be something, him asking Snot Rod of all cars for advice.

He felt as if the very treads were worn off his tires by the time he reached Snot Rod’s.

“You really came!” Snot Rod exclaimed as he let Wingo in.

“I promised I would.”  Wingo followed the Barracuda to his room.

“Well, I. . . I thought--”

“You didn’t believe me, hunh?”

Snot Rod sneezed rather than replying, then shut the door to his room.  “Are you all right?  You look really tired.”

“I _am_ really tired.”  Wingo slumped on Snot Rod’s mat with a sigh.

“Will you tell me what’s going on?” Snot Rod asked gently.  He nudged Wingo’s front bumper with his own.

“I. . . .”  Wingo looked down and swallowed hard.  “I was racing.”

“Racing?  You mean like when McQueen raced us the other day?”

“No.  Like. . . on a track.  Well, if you could call it a track.  Against five other cars.”  He winced.  “Rusty cars.”

“Oh. . . that explains this then.”  He gave the chipped place under Wingo’s headlight a little nuzzle.  Wingo felt himself flush and decided not to mention that was just from Tommy Joe saying hello.  “But. . . why?”

Wingo closed his eyes and spilled everything.  “I want to be a race car.  I asked McQueen if he could show me some moves, and he put me in this race, and. . . and I lost!  To a bunch of rusty cars.  Even that hillbilly tow truck.”

“Wingo?  You want to be a race car?  But what about your neon and your paint and. . . you’ve put everything into being a tuner, and you want to give it up to be a race car?”

“No, I don’t want to give it up!  That’s just the thing.  I want to be in two different worlds at once. . . and I can’t win in either of them.”

Snot Rod was quiet a moment except for a sniff; then he said, “Maybe you can.  You’re already the best-looking tuner ever, and you’re fast-- maybe if you practice you _can_ win a race.”

Wingo slowly opened his eyes.  “You really think it might be worth it to try?”

Snot Rod gave him a small smile.  “If it’s what will make you happy, then yeah.”

“. . . ‘Best-looking tuner ever’, hunh?” Wingo asked after keeping silent for a moment.

Snot Rod looked down quickly.  “Erm. . . well, better than Boost or DJ anyway.  Your spoiler has five feet on them, at least.”

“Well when you’re as small as I am, you have to make up for it somehow.  You big muscle cars wouldn’t understand.”  Wingo gave him a playful nudge with his wheel, then broke off in a yawn.  “I’d better get home, I’m about to crash.  Thanks for hearing me out.  I. . . feel better.”

“Anytime.”  As Wingo started out his door, Snot Rod asked, “Wingo, can I watch you practice some time?”

Wingo paused.  “No-- you’d make me nervous.”  Snot Rod looked disappointed until Wingo added, “But next time I’m in a race. . . I want you to come.”

Snot Rod grinned.  “I will.”

\--

The next day, Wingo went back to the Rustbucket arena to practice with Tommy Joe.  He still wasn’t too thrilled about returning to the site of his defeat, but he kept thinking about what Snot Rod had said about being happy.  By now, it wouldn’t take impressing Lightning McQueen or winning a race to make Wingo happy.  He just wanted to prove to himself that he could. . . well, do something with himself besides add another light or more katakana.  He was beginning to think that being a race car wasn’t for him, but hell if he were going to quit while he was losing.

Despite what McQueen had said about Tommy Joe, the old car wasn’t a lot of help.  The only useful thing he said the whole morning was that a real race had been scheduled for the next weekend-- six cars, twelve laps-- and that Wingo could enter if he thought he’d be ready.  The rest of the time, he rambled about past races while Wingo ran the track over and over.

Tommy Joe left around noon, but Wingo stayed on and kept practicing.  Most of all, he concentrated on not flinching when he neared the debris on the track, and on using his dodging skills most efficiently when something appeared in his way.

“Nothing to be afraid of,” he muttered as he missed a wooden crate by inches.  “Less dangerous than dodging moving cars on the interstate, actually-- and I never freaked about _that_.”

He returned home that night exhausted.  His parents had already gone to bed, but that was nothing new.  In fact, he was much earlier than on nights he went out with the other tuners.  Just as well though-- the last thing he wanted to do was explain the new dings on his bumper to his father.

When morning came, Wingo stayed in his room until his father left for work, then sneaked out of the house without seeing his mother.  He spent all that day practicing, and the next, and the next.  Snot Rod told Boost and DJ that Wingo’s “check engine” light was on, and that his mother wouldn’t let him leave the house until the doctor could figure out why.  In reality, Wingo was just too worn out from practicing to go out with the other tuners.

On Saturday morning, Wingo hoped he would be able to sneak out once more without seeing his parents, but his luck ran out.  They were parked at the breakfast table when he came out of his room.

“Wait just a minute, young man,” Mr. Silvia announced when Wingo opened the front door.  “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“I’m going out with Snot Rod,” Wingo muttered.

“Honey, we’ve hardly seen you all week!”  Wingo’s mother started towards him, then stared.  “Why. . . your hood’s all dented!”

“What have you been up to?” his father snapped.

“Nothing.”  Wingo edged towards the open door.  He saw Snot Rod pull into the driveway, but Mr. Silvia half-shut the door, blocking Wingo’s escape.

“Those friends of yours are getting you into trouble again, aren’t they?”

“Dad, I haven’t even seen them all week--”

“It’s that orange Barracuda, isn’t it?” Mr. Silvia ranted on.  “I _knew_ you’d get in trouble if you kept hanging out with that low-class muscle car--”

“He’s not low-class!” Wingo shouted back, infuriated.  “He’s my best friend!  He had nothing to do with it anyway.  I’m doing it myself.”

“Oh-- oh dear!” gasped Mrs. Silvia.  “Self-mutilation!” she whispered to her husband.  “I read about it in one of my women’s magazines, the kids today are dinging up their bumpers _on purpose_ \--”

“Mom, it’s not like _that_.”  Wingo sighed.  “I’ve been practicing for a race.”

His parents stared at him.  “A. . . race?” Mr. Silvia asked incredulously.

“Why, I never knew you had an interest in sports!” Wingo’s mother added.

“Can I _please_ go now?” Wingo interrupted.  “I’m going to be late.”

Mr. Silvia opened the garage door.  “Go on then.  But try to come home at a decent hour, all right?”

Wingo dashed out the door to find Snot Rod waiting for him.  “Parent trouble,” Wingo explained with a roll of his eyes.  “Let’s get out of here.”

Snot Rod didn’t say much as they made their way to the interstate.  Wingo didn’t know why until the Barracuda blurted out, “Your parents don’t like me, do they?”

Wingo winced.  “You heard Dad, hunh?  Don’t listen to him.  He probably doesn’t mean it anyway; he’s always saying crap when he’s mad.  Anything to imply I’m failing him as a son.”  When Snot Rod still looked upset, he added, “Besides, I like you no matter what anyone else says.”

Snot Rod finally smiled a little.  “Am I really your best friend?”

“Of course.”

At the interstate exit that led to Ornament Valley and the Rustbucket Race-o-Rama, Wingo stopped at a gas station to fill up on fuel and get his tire pressure checked.  After he was finished, he went inside the station, where Snot Rod was staring at a crane game.  It was filled with prizes, and the player used a control to maneuver the crane into grabbing the item of choice.

“Look!  Fuzzy dice!”  Snot Rod pressed his bumper up against the glass.

“. . . Fuzzy dice?  Do have any idea what Boost and DJ would say if they saw you wearing fuzzy dice?”

“But. . . but they’re orange and black!” Snot Rod sniffled.  “And I’ve always wanted some.  If I just had some change. . . .”

Wingo sighed.  He himself wouldn’t be caught dead in fuzzy dice. . . but what the heck.  He shook some change loose from his console.

“Move over.”

“Hunh?”  Snot Rod moved out of the way, and Wingo flicked the change into the crane machine’s slot.  With one front wheel, he nudged the control to position the crane, then jabbed the button to lower it with the other.  Wingo grinned in triumph as the crane closed over the garish orange dice.

“Here.”  When the dice tumbled out of the machine, he tossed them to Snot Rod, who caught them on his rearview mirror.

“Oh wow!  Wingo, you’re amazing,” Snot Rod beamed.  He rolled forward and nuzzled Wingo’s front bumper with his own.  “Thanks.”

Wingo blushed.  “Let’s go, or we’ll be late.”

\--

By the time they got to the Rustbucket arena, a large crowd of cars had already gathered.  Wingo felt extremely out of place as he slunk in through a small side entrance.  All the other cars there were big, strong. . . and what his father would disdainfully term “low class.”  Not to mention quite rusty in some cases.  A muscle car like Snot Rod fit in a lot better than a little import like Wingo.

“You race _here_?” Snot Rod asked as he eyed the cluttered, figure-eight-shaped track.

“Yeah,” Wingo muttered in abject humiliation.

“This is _awesome_!”  Wingo stared at his friend as the Barracuda revved his supercharger in excitement.  “My dad used to run demolition derbies at tracks like this before he left town.  He was the greatest at it-- but I bet you’re just as good.”

“Uh, well. . . .”  Wingo was saved by Count Spatula of all cars.  He and his monster truck friends came up to the tuners, making twice as much noise as anyone else there.

“I heard you vere racing tonight, little import,” Spatula said, peering down at Wingo.  “Is that true?”

“Yeah,” Wingo replied, trying to sound braver than he felt.  “Y-you’re not racing are you?”

“Ohoho!” Spatula laughed.  “Not us, not with these puny cars!  Ve race vith our own kind, only!”

“Ehehehe,” giggled The Crippler.  “What a shame, I wouldn’t mind doing some work on you after you got all dinged up in the race.”  He nudged Wingo’s back end with one huge tire.  “You might crack that pretty spoiler, eheheh.”

As Wingo squirmed away from him, Count Spatula noticed Snot Rod for the first time.  “Who is your orange friend?”

“I’m-- ahh-- ahhhhh-- _choo_!”  Flames shot up as Snot Rod sneezed.

“He’s Snot Rod,” Wingo said, biting back a sigh.  Snot Rod sniffled and looked up at the monster trucks, wide-eyed.  Wingo said to him, “This is Count Spatula, The Crippler, and Ginormous.”  Ginormous laughed insanely at the sound of his name.

“Sounds like you have a cold,” The Crippler said gleefully to Snot Rod.

“It’s just my supercharger,” Snot Rod snuffled.  “It messes up my sinuses.”

“Oh, I could take care of that for you,” The Crippler purred, leaning closer to examine him.  “Just a little drilling right here--”  He stroked the supercharger with the side of his tire.

“Get your tires off him!” Wingo snapped.  “He’s mine!”  All four of them stared at him.  “M-my friend,” Wingo finished lamely.

“Fine, fine.”  The Crippler rolled his eyes and backed up.  “Just remember who to call if you need some, ah, repairs after your race, eheheh.”

Wingo breathed a sigh of relief as the monster trucks went off to bully someone else.

“Wow,” Snot Rod said weakly.  “They’re scary.  I’m glad you’re not racing with _them_.”

Just then Fred made an announcement over the arena’s staticky loudspeaker, ordering all cars participating in the race down to the starting line.

“I’ll go find a parking place,” Snot Rod told Wingo with an apprehensive little smile.  “Good luck.  Break an axle.”

“Thanks.”  Wingo stared into his friend’s bright green eyes for a minute.  He was nervous about the race for the first time, and it didn’t help that he now had Snot Rod’s missing father to live up to.

Snot Rod blinked at him.  “Wingo?  You okay?”

“Yeah.”  He managed a smile and flickered his headlights.  “See you later.”  He drove down to the starting line before he could lose any more nerve.  The other five cars, including Tommy Joe and Mater, were already there.

“Welcome to th’ Rustbucket Race oh Ramma!” Fred drawled over the loudspeaker.  “Fust prize tonight is a night out on the town in bee-yootiful Radiator Springs!  Our winner gets dinner for two at Flo’s V8 Cafe and two tickets to _Salem’s Parking Lot_ at the drive-in!  Second place is a whole case of Rust-Eze Bumper Ointment.  Hooo doggie, that’s some prize right there!”

Hooo doggie indeed.  Wingo wasn’t too excited about the bumper ointment, but dinner and a movie sounded nice.  He searched the stands until he spotted Snot Rod’s bright orange paint job several rows up.  Snot Rod saw him looking and started to wave a tire, but broke out into a sneeze instead.

“Aight, time to get started!” Fred went on.  “Fellers, start yer engines!”

“Good luck, kid,” Tommy Joe said from his spot next to Wingo.  “Watch out fer the ob-stake-uls.”

“Thanks,” Wingo muttered.  _I’m already so dinged up,_ he told himself, _I can hit anything I damn well please._   He looked away from Snot Rod to focus on the track in front of him.

After what felt like an eternity, Fred dropped the starting flag.  Wingo took off, already priming himself for the first ramp.  He tried to pretend he was on the interstate and looking his best, not in a dusty arena with a dinged-up bumper.  On a whim, he flicked on his neon just as he jumped the ramp.  It shown off the dust his tires kicked up and sent a shower of green stars behind him.

“Oooh!” cried a chorus of voices in the crowd.  Even if Wingo lost, he’d give them a good show.

Soon he forgot his daydream of the interstate, and even the other cars around him.  He neatly darted around the larger obstacles on the track and plowed right through the smaller ones.  The tiny flecks of pain they caused hitting his bumper only pumped his adrenaline higher.  For the first time in a long while, Wingo felt good.

On the sixth lap, he heard Mater coming up on his left-- he knew it was Mater from the rattling and hollering.  With a little extra burst of speed, Wingo managed to stay ahead of him.  _Good,_ he thought.  _At least I’m not last._   But staying ahead of Mater was hard.  Even when Wingo gained a few yards on the jumps, the tow truck managed to catch up again.  On the tenth lap, their front bumpers were even.  Wingo tried his hardest, even plowing through a large barrel on the last lap that he normally would have dodged, but Mater’s front tires were past the finish line by the time Wingo reached it.

Wingo felt tears prick his windshield as he pulled up to a stop next to the tow truck.  _I can’t do it,_ he thought miserably.  _I can’t do better than last place on one single race._   He slumped in the dust, unaware even of the other racers gathering beside him and Mater.

“Wowee, what a race!” Fred exclaimed over the speaker.  “We haven’t seen this much excitement at the ol’ Rustbucket in years!  Taking fust place is our very own Tow Mater!”

“Shoooooot!” Mater beamed.  “I did it!  I did it!”

“Hunh?”  Wingo stared up at the tow truck.  “How did you--”

“And taking second is a newcomer to the Rustbucket, Wingo Silvia!”

“What?  Me?”

Mater chuckled.  “Didn’t think you was gonna come in before me, didja?”

“N-no, I thought. . . I thought I was last!”  Wingo looked around at the other racers.  “I didn’t see any of you beside me--”

“That’s because you was so far ahead,” Tommy Joe said with a smile.  “Not quite far enough to beat ol’ cuz though-- Mater’s been practicing all week too.”

“Th-that’s fine.  Second place is good,” Wingo said blankly, still stunned.

When Fred came down to award the prizes, Mater eyed the case of Rust-Eze wistfully.  “Almost makes me wish I come in second,” he sighed.  “That’s one mighty fine prize.”

“Here.”  Wingo nudged the case towards the tow truck.  “You can have it.”  He started to say, “You need it more than I do,” but decided that wouldn’t make him look too good.  “I, uh, have plenty at home.”

“Wow, ya mean it?”  Mater beamed at him.  “Thanks, kid!  Tell ya what, I already seen the movie three times, and I don’t got anyone to take out to dinner.  You can have my prize since you gave me yours.”

Surprised, Wingo took the meal coupons and tickets he offered.  “Thanks, Mater.”  He even smiled as he glanced up at the rusty truck.

Luckily for Wingo, most of the attention was on Mater; everyone was excited about the underdog tow truck taking first place.  Wingo made his way to the edge of the crowd and looked around for Snot Rod.  He spotted the Barracuda trying to reach him, but it took him a few minutes to fight through the throngs of cars.

“Wingo, that was awesome,” Snot Rod enthused when he finally reached Wingo.  “You were just like Dad out there!  And when you turned on your neon. . . wow.”

“Thanks.”  Wingo took a deep breath.  “Hey, Mater traded prizes with me.  He really wanted that Rust-Eze, so I gave it to him, and he gave me his tickets.”

“That was nice of him.  So I guess you’ll be going on to Radiator Springs now,” Snot Rod sniffed.

“Yeah.  So, uh. . . you got any plans for tonight?”

“No, I’m just gonna go home and watch TV or something.  Have a glass of oil.”  He sighed heavily.  “I hope you have fun though.”

And to think people called Mater dense.  “Well, I sort of thought you could come with me,” Wingo explained.  “I have two tickets. . . .”

Snot Rod revved his supercharger and broke into a grin.  “Really?  You’d take _me_?”

“Yeah.”  Wingo smiled a little.  “You _are_ my best friend.”  He glanced around at the crowd near Mater, then started for the exit.  “C’mon, let’s get out of here before those monster trucks find us again.”

Snot Rod followed him with a sneeze.  “You got it.”

Before they went to Flo’s, Wingo made a stop at Ramone’s House of Body Art.  Snot Rod wandered around admiring Ramone’s stock of shiny rims as the Impala popped the dents out of Wingo’s front bumper.

“Thassa nice paint job you got there, _homes_ ,” Ramone commented.  “Who designed it?”

“I did,” Wingo said proudly.  “It says ‘import’ in Japanese.”  Technically it said “inpoto,” but Wingo didn’t feel like explaining katakana to Ramone.

“Nice flames too.”  Ramone rolled back a little and studied his front.  “Wouldn’t have thought green and purple would go together, but it looks pretty sharp.  You ever thought about going into the body art business, _ese_?”

“No, not really.”

“Wingo wants to be a race car!” Snot Rod volunteered.

Ramone chuckled.  “A race car, hunh?  That will be hell on your paint, _homes_.  Although,” he added as he touched up the purple on Wingo’s hood, “I guess you already know that.”

“Yeah.”  Wingo fidgeted a little, thinking of how much it would cost to keep his paint looking good if he kept racing at the Rustbucket.

“You know, you look more like an artist than an athlete,” said Ramone a bit later as he finished drying Wingo’s paint.  “I been thinking about getting an apprentice.  I might consider you for the job if you’re interested.”

“I’ll think about it,” Wingo promised.

He and Snot Rod went on to Flo’s, where the proprietress praised her husband’s paint job, then proceeded to tell the tuners all about how she met Ramone.  Finally she went to wait on someone else, but just as Wingo settled down to his dinner, the twins came rolling over, gushing.

“Ohmigod, I heard you got second place racing!” one of them squealed.  “That is _so cool_.”

“Well, it’s not like I won or anything,” Wingo muttered.  Normally he would have liked the attention, but right now he just wished the twins would go away so he could enjoy his evening in peace.

“Can we, like, go out with you tonight?” the other twin asked without paying the least bit of attention.  Wingo edged away from them a little, but they just pressed closer.  On the other side of the pump, Snot Rod glared at the girls.

“I thought you two were dating Boost and DJ,” Wingo protested.

“They’re, like, _so_ boring,” the first twin snorted.  “All they care about is themselves and how they look.”

“That’s all they talk about too!” added the second.  “And they laughed when we tried to talk about racing.”

 _So that’s how other cars see us,_ Wingo thought grimly.  _That we don’t care about anyone but ourselves._   Somehow, that was more disturbing than the thought that Boost and DJ laughed at racing.

“Look, thanks for the offer, but I’ve already got plans,” Wingo told the twins firmly.

“But-- Tia, look!” squealed the first twin.  “There’s Mater!  He _won_ the race!”

Wingo looked too, and saw Mater come rolling into the station with a very shiny rear bumper and a pleased look on his face.  The twins forgot all about Wingo and dashed away to fawn over the tow truck instead.

“Thank the manufacturer,” Wingo muttered.

“This is delicious!” Snot Rod said as he slurped at his fuel, happy now that the twins were gone.  “Thanks for letting me come with you.”

“I’d rather be with you than someone like them any day.”

“Oh!”  Snot Rod gave him a pleased smile.  “I like being with you too, Wingo.”  He paused to sneeze, spattering Wingo’s clean bumper with fuel.  “Oh, uh. . . sorry.  I’ll, uh, clean you up--”

Wingo bit back a sigh and stuck his tongue out to lick the fuel off his bumper.  “It’s okay; I got it.”  When he thought about how he must look, he had to laugh.  The situation _was_ sort of funny.  “Hey, your drink tastes better than mine.  Flo must have a thing for you.”

Snot Rod chuckled.  “No thanks, she’s not my type.  Ramone would kill me anyway.”  He took another gulp of fuel.  “Are you really gonna think about working for him?”

“I dunno.”  Wingo looked down at his fuel can.  “I couldn’t do that and race too, but after tonight I think. . . maybe racing isn’t right for me.”

“I hope not,” Snot Rod said abruptly.  Wingo gave him a curious look and the Barracuda looked embarrassed.  “I mean, you could really get hurt out there.  And if you go off to. . . do whatever race cars do. . . . what would I do without you?  You’re the only friend I’ve got.”

“I. . . .”  Wingo swallowed hard.  “You could come with me.  If you wanted to.  But if I ever do go off somewhere to race,” he went on quickly, “it won’t be for a long time.  I think working for Ramone might be a good idea.  I have ideas for some new designs, but I don’t want to change mine.  This way I could test them out on actual customers.”

“Can you think of one that might look good on me?” Snot Rod asked hopefully.  “I look sort of plain compared to you and DJ and Boost.  Maybe if I had some flames painted on me, or something. . . .”

Wingo smiled.  “I’ll come up with something special, just for you.”

After they finished their fuel, the tuners went to the newly reopened drive-in theater.  The tickets Wingo had won were for spaces on the front row, and he and Snot Rod settled in between the speakers with coolant Icees just as the previews started.

“Hey, down in front!” a brusque voice called.  “I can’t see past your spoiler!”

Wingo turned to see Sarge, the grumpy WWII Jeep, glaring at him.  “I can’t exactly take it off!”

“Then don’t park in the front row!”

“He won these spots fair and square!” Snot Rod jumped in.

The wildly painted VW Bus parked next to Sarge rolled his eyes.  “So much negative energy.  Look, I’ll just trade places with you.  I’m tall enough to see over him.”

The Jeep looked as if he’d rather argue with Wingo than reach such an easy solution, but he moved into the Bus’s spot when the other backed up for him.  Wingo smirked and turned back to the movie screen.

“Thanks, Fillmore,” Sarge muttered.

“No problem, honey,” crooned Fillmore.

“I told you not to call me that in public!” snapped the Jeep.

 _Salem’s Parking Lot_ was a horror movie about vampire cars.  They drank the oil of unfortunate victims in the small town of Jerusalem’s Parking Lot; then those victims turned into vampires too.  Snot Rod was absolutely terrified and huddled against Wingo’s side, particularly during one scene where a young vampire car tapped repeatedly at the garage window of his former friend, asking to be invited in.

After the movie was over, the tuners started for home.  Snot Rod was okay until the lights of Radiator Springs were behind them and they were in the dark of Ornament Valley.

“D-don’t get too far ahead of me, okay, Wingo?” he pleaded.  There wasn’t much chance of that happening, Wingo thought; the Barracuda was practically glued to his side.  Wingo flicked on his neon, casting a cool green glow several feet on every side of them.

“There, no vampires will mess with _this_ ,” he declared proudly.

Wingo’s parents were still up when they got to his garage.  “How did your race go, honey?” Mrs. Silvia asked after she had greeted Snot Rod.  The muscle car hung back near the door, making Wingo feel guilty once more that he had overheard them calling him “low class.”

“I got second place.”  Wingo couldn’t keep a note of pride from his voice.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!  Isn’t that nice, dear?” she prodded Wingo’s father.

“Yes, fantastic.”  Mr. Silvia eyed his son’s bumper.  “I’m glad to see you got yourself fixed up, Wingman.  You know how your mother doesn’t like seeing dings on your bumper.”

Wingo cringed, wishing his father wouldn’t call him by his real name.  Still, he knew that any comment on it would start the old “This name was good enough for me!” argument, and he let it go.  “Can Sno-- er, Rodney spend the night?”

“I don’t know--” his father began.

“Oh, why not?” Mrs. Silvia interrupted.  “It’s much too late for him to go all the way across town.  Your mother won’t mind, will she, dear?” she asked Snot Rod in the same breath.

“N-no, ma’am.  She doesn’t care what I do.”  Wingo tried to ignore the “See what I mean about low class?” look on his father’s face as he and Snot Rod went to his room.

“Thanks for sharing your prize with me,” Snot Rod said softly after Wingo had shut the door to his room.  “I had fun.  It was sorta nice to do something besides drive around with Boost and DJ for a change.”

Wingo smiled a little.  “I had fun too.”

“So do you think you’ll start going out with us again next week?  It’s just not the same without you.”

“Yeah, I don’t think I’ll be practicing racing again any time soon.”  Something scratched at the window.  Wingo glanced up, then decided to ignore it.  Mentioning it to Snot Rod might get him started on vampires again.  “I, uh, think I’ll go talk to Ramone tomorrow morning.  If he does hire me, I should still be able to go out at night.” He grinned.  “And once I start working I’ll have plenty of spare change to take you out again.”

Snot Rod’s bumper broke into a shy grin, but before he could say anything, another scratching noise came from outside the window.

“Uh, what was that?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Wingo said firmly.

“Well, I did!  It was something scratching at the window.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Am not.”  Scriiiiitch.  “See?  You had to have heard that!”

“Yeah, but. . . it wasn’t anything.  Just the wind,” Wingo said, not very convincingly.

“ _It’s a vampire car come to suck our oil!_ ” Snot Rod wailed.

“There’s no such thing as vampires.”

“What about that Count Spatula?  I bet _he’s_ a vampire!”

“Just because they’re monster trucks. . . and insane. . . doesn’t mean they’re vampires!” Wingo tried to reason with him.  “If they wanted to suck out our oil, they’d have to use some kind of medical stuff.”

“ _I bet The Crippler has medical stuff like that!_ ”  Snot Rod gave a sob, followed by a wet sniff.  “I’m too young to get my oil drained!”

“Snot Rod.  No one is going to drain your oil,” Wingo told him firmly.  “And there is nothing at the window.”

“Go check.”

“What?”

“Go look and make sure there’s nothing there.”

Wingo glanced at the window nervously.  “ _You_ go check.  You’re the one that’s worried.”

“That’s exactly why _you_ should go!”

“Fine!  As long as you promise to go to sleep afterwards.”

“We may both go to sleep _forever_ \--”

Wingo leaned over to the window and, gritting his teeth, raised the blind to find one small VW Beetle fly scritching against the glass.

“It’s a bug, Snot Rod.”

“A-- a bug?”

“Yes, a bug.  It’s probably attracted by my lights.”  Sure enough, when Wingo switched off his neon, the Beetle flew away.

Wingo settled back onto his mat and nudged Snot Rod with a tire.  “Told you.”

“Uh, Wingo?”

“What.”

“If there _were_ vampires. . . you’d protect me, right?”

“Snot Rod, you’re the muscle car, and you’re a lot stronger than I am.  _You_ should be protecting _me_.”

“But. . . .”

“Okay, okay.  I’ll protect you.”  He nuzzled Snot Rod’s bumper, then turned off the light switch with his tire.  “But for now, I’m going to sleep.  I’m wiped out.”

“Okay.  Night, Wingo.”

“Night.”  Wingo settled down onto his mat with a yawn.  He was exhausted from the race, on top of a week of practice.  But he was also happier than he had been in a long time.  He had proved that he _could_ race, if he wanted to-- maybe he wasn’t the best, but he wasn’t the worst either.  And the more he thought about working with Ramone, the better it sounded.  It would be good money, and maybe he could make a name for himself.

Most of all, he liked the idea of spending more time with Snot Rod, even if the evening had seemed suspiciously like a. . . well, a date.  Maybe the Barracuda was from a broken home and didn’t have as much money as the rest of the tuners, maybe he was uncoordinated and had serious sinus problems.  He was still the only car who had believed in Wingo, and the only one Wingo trusted.  _I **would** protect you,_ Wingo thought, glancing at his friend.  _From vampires or The Crippler, or anyone else that tried to hurt you._

“Wingo?”

“H-hunh?”  Wingo jumped, embarrassed.

“I can’t sleep.”

“Snot Rod, for the last time, there are no vampires.”

“I know, but. . . do you mind if I play some music to calm down?”

“Go ahead,” Wingo sighed.  In a moment, Snot Rod began playing the same song he had played for Wingo when they found McQueen racing in the desert.  It didn’t seem so sad now to Wingo as he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

_Do you believe your heart? Trying in all the world to find your way back inside. . . .  I will be there for you to care, and you will find peace of mind. . . ._

After the song ended, Wingo felt a gentle touch on his bumper, so light he thought he had only imagined it, or that he was dreaming.  But no, there it was again.  Wingo opened his eyes to see that Snot Rod was kissing him, his eyes closed and blissful expression on his windshield.

Wingo jumped, and Snot Rod’s eyes flew open.  The Barracuda pulled back and stammered, “I-I thought you were asleep--”

“N-no. . . .”

“I’m sorry.”  Snot Rod sniffled heavily.  “I just-- I like you a lot, Wingo, and I’ve never kissed anyone before, and I--”

“It’s okay.”  Wingo rolled a few inches closer to him.  “I like you too.”  He gave the Barracuda a tentative peck on the bumper.

“Do have any idea what Boost and DJ would say if they saw you kissing me?” Snot Rod said with uncharacteristic wryness.  “After all, I’m wearing fuzzy dice.”

“Screw Boost and DJ.”  Wingo kissed him again, deeper this time.  Snot Rod’s engine purred as they nuzzled and caressed each other’s bumpers.

“Y-you’d better get some sleep,” Snot Rod said shakily after a few minutes.  “You’ve had a rough week, and, uh, I really don’t want your parents to roll in on us.  They _really_ wouldn’t like me then.”

Wingo gave him one last nuzzle.  “Good point.  I’ll give them a little while to recover from me racing before I tell them I’m dating a male muscle car.”

“Dating?” Snot Rod asked happily.  “We’re dating?”

Wingo smirked.  “I think all this would count as dating.”  He closed his eyes again, putting his sunglass screen down for good measure, and this time Snot Rod stayed quiet-- at least until he began to snore.  _Guess I’d better get used to not sleeping much,_ Wingo thought to himself-- but somehow, he didn’t really mind.

\--

The End


End file.
